


Not Fade Away

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is a ghost who haunts Peter but still helps him solve cases. Originally written mid-Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Fade Away

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the movie **Topper**. Thanks to Elrhiarhodan for the beta.

Neal? NEAL!”

_Peter?_

“Come on, buddy, hold on, OK?”

_OK._

Neal was puzzled. Peter sounded panicked. What was happening?

“He’s coding!” another voice said. “Prep the defibrillator.”

 _Huh?_ He didn’t understand. What the hell was going on?

“Clear!”

Neal felt a jolt and his vision went completely white.

“Nothing. Hit him again.”

“Clear!”

 _Stop that!_ Neal said. Tried to say. Why couldn’t they hear him? He was vaguely aware of movement around him, but it all seemed so far away. Time began slipping away from him, becoming almost meaningless.

“Damn it, we lost him!”

“Call it.”

“Time of death, 15:05.”

 _Aw, fuck!_ Neal said.

\----

FOUR DAYS LATER  
  
Peter looked at the bedside clock. 2:38 am. He got out of bed and padded downstairs, heading for the kitchen and the bourbon bottle that lived there. He couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t slept in days. Today had been as Neal's funeral. He still didn’t know how he got through it, but at least it was over.

He let Satchmo out into the yard and then walked through to the kitchen. He flicked the stopper off the bourbon bottle with his thumb and poured himself three fingers. He ran a hand over his face; he needed a shave. Maybe he could get El to do it for him later. _Since that day,_ his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Peter let the dog back in and went and flopped himself down on the couch. He drained his glass and wished he’d brought the bottle with him. He reached for the TV remote on the coffee table and found that it was covered by a grey trilby.

Peter blinked. He screwed his eyes shut, shook his head. Opened his eyes. The hat remained. He reached for it, picked it up. It was real. He turned it over, caught its scent. Sandalwood and citrus, a mixture that was undeniably…Neal. He dropped the hat on the floor as if it had burned him.

“Well, that’s no way to treat vintage rabbit hair felt. Have some respect.”

Peter looked sharply towards the voice. Neal stood – or leaned, rather – against the bookcase, hands in his pockets, a sly smile on his face.

“…” Peter couldn’t form words.

“A little early to be hitting the sauce, Peter.” He sounded disappointed.

“Neal?”

“Good morning.” His smile was cocky, irreverent as ever.

“I’m seeing things now? Great.” Peter closed his eyes again and ran his hand over them, pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and then another. Opened his eyes.

“Boo!” Neal said with a smirk, straightened and walked toward him.

Peter recoiled into the back of the couch. Neal crossed in front of the coffee table to stand at the other end of the couch. He bent down, picked up the hat and sat down. Peter noticed that the couch cushions didn’t move when he sat.

“Am I going crazy?” Peter asked.

“That’s between you and your shrink.”

“I watched you die.”

Neal's face was suddenly serious, a touch of grief clouding his clear blue eyes. “I know. Thanks for staying.” 

Four days earlier, Peter and the team had been in pursuit of a suspect when Peter had tripped and broken his wrist. Neal accompanied him to the hospital, and while waiting in the ER for it to be set, complained of sudden chest pain and passed out, never to wake again. The doctors said it was an aortic dissection brought on by an undiagnosed congenital heart defect,  and there was nothing that could’ve been done. Peter, in shock, had sat beside Neal's body until the nurses had to make him leave.

“Am I going crazy?” Peter repeated.

“No.”

“I need another bourbon.”

When Peter returned from the kitchen, Neal was gone. He felt a stab of disappointment, sadness. Even if the conman had been a hallucination, it was a welcome one. He downed the drink with one swallow, left the glass on the hall table and returned to his wife’s side. She opened her arms to him as soon as he got into the bed, pulled his head to her chest and held him until he fell asleep.

\----

Peter returned to work the next day, over El’s protests. He knew – and El did too, but still she had a duty to try – that he needed the distraction of the office to keep his mind occupied. He needed to work.

He arrived that morning and pointedly ignored the vacant desk near the door. He headed up to his office and opened his laptop, diving into the tidal wave of emails he found in his inbox. By the time he was done answering them, he found it was close to 11:00 and he hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.

He was struggling with the logistics of making a fresh pot while one of his hands was completely encased in a cast when he noticed that the used pot on top of the machine had somehow rinsed itself out in the sink and wound up on the burner, empty, water still streaming down its side and waiting for a new batch of coffee. He looked around. There was no one else there. He stared at the pot, incredulous; he knew he hadn’t cleaned it, had no memory of doing so, nor of moving it to the burner. He looked around again. The drawer where the coffee was kept suddenly opened on its own and a packet seemed to fly out of it, hovered in midair over the basket on the coffeemaker and split itself in half with a distinct _pfft_ sound. It emptied itself into the basket and threw itself into the trash.

Peter heard a laugh beside him. “You could at least push the button,” Neal's voice said, low. He seemed to be talking right into his ear. “This is harder than it looks.”

Peter fled back to his office.

He sat at his desk, breathing heavily. He glanced out over the bullpen. His agents carried on with their work as if nothing had happened. No one had noticed the activity at the coffee machine. Peter covered his eyes with a shaky hand and took deep breaths until he calmed down. When he opened his eyes, his World’s Best FBI Agent mug was sitting on the corner of his desk, filled to the brim with steaming black liquid.

“This isn’t happening,” Peter whispered, reaching out his hand tentatively toward the cup.

“Oh, but it is,” Neal said quietly. He was sitting in his customary seat across the desk from Peter, a file folder open in his lap.

“Why?”

Neal shrugged. “Can’t we have fun while it lasts?” He threw the file onto the desk. “You should look into the IT director in the Henson Pharmaceuticals case.”

Peter looked down at the folder. “What makes you say that?”

“He was dating the VP of R&D – a married man, I might add, tsk-tsk-tsk. They recently broke up. If you probe a little more you’ll see that the access logs have been faked to make it look like the R&D guy’s passing information to the competition. It’s a frame-up.”

“Really?” Peter was suddenly interested, picking up the folder.

“Check the network forensics. Compare the in-house logs to the ones stored offsite. Hey, you feel like an early lunch? I’d love to get out into the sun.”

\----

Peter walked across Federal Plaza toward a lunch truck parked nearby, Neal beside him. The day was bright, not a cloud in the sky and he noticed Neal did not cast a shadow. He ordered a cheesesteak with extra hot peppers (“If I could, I’d totally rat you out to Elizabeth!” Neal scolded) and sat on a nearby bench under the cover of some trees. He opened his bottle of cream soda and fervently wished it was a beer or something a lot stronger.

“Did you order the black calla lilies at my funeral or was that Elizabeth? Because they were stunning,” Neal asked.

Peter looked at him, a wounded expression on his face.

“Too soon to talk about it?” Neal asked. Peter’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah. Too soon. Sorry.”

Peter threw his sandwich into the trash can nearby and took a swig of soda. He was no longer hungry.

“Peter, I’m sorry. I am.”

“Please go away,” Peter said, his voice as neutral as he could make it.

“Peter –“

“Please, hallucination, go away _now_.” Neal disappeared. “This is hard enough,” Peter said to the thin air that remained.

Peter returned to the office to consult with the Tech Lab on the network forensics in the Henson Pharmaceuticals case.

\----

When Peter arrived home that evening, Elizabeth had made him his favorite dinner, steak au poivre. He was starving, having skipped lunch, and was grateful for the extra TLC. These “episodes” – that’s how he thought of them – with Neal had truly shaken him. Never before had he had occasion to doubt his own mind, much less his sanity.

He and Neal had gained a closeness over the last two years he didn’t have with a lot of people, and if pressed, Peter would even say he loved him, as a brother. An extremely annoying and cocky kid brother, but still, he wouldn’t have expected his loss to affect him in this way.  

He’d lost people in the past, and not just the losses typical to most young people – a dog here or a beloved grandparent there. He had been very close to asking his high school girlfriend to marry him when she’d been tragically killed by a drunk driver. At the time, he feared what his grief was doing to him – he’d had violent outbursts that only several months of intense therapy had helped alleviate – but he’d never hallucinated her ghost, no matter how desperate he felt.

So what was wrong with him now, he wondered as he loaded up the dishwasher, a clumsy oven mitt keeping his cast dry. El was taking Satchmo for a walk.

“Want some help?” Neal's voice asked.

Peter looked around; Neal wasn’t there, but a bowl was hovering in the air just above the dishwasher. “I thought I asked you to leave me alone,” Peter said, grabbing the bowl and placing it in the rack.

Neal appeared across the room with a faint pop. “I…can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“Well, it turns out that when you haunt someone, you’re pretty much bound to them no matter what.”

Peter turned to face him. “And what does that mean?”

Neal shifted his weight and pulled up his left trouser leg, rotated his foot for effect.

“Is that your tracker?” Peter asked, astonished.

“The irony is not lost on me, trust me. If I get more than 50 yards away from you, it beeps.”

“And what happens if you go farther?”

A shadow crossed Neal's face. “I…I don’t want to find out, OK? It’s… it’s scary.”

Peter regarded him closely for a few seconds. “I love that my hallucination now has rules imposed upon it.”

Neal took a step closer, his expression intense. “I’m telling you, I’m real, Peter. Or at least, as far as I can tell. But apparently only you can see me, and so that makes me think I’m here to haunt _you_.”

 “But why?”

Neal shrugged. “They didn’t issue me a rulebook.”

“ _They_? There’s a _they_?”

“That’s just it – I don’t know,” Neal said, showing anger for the first time. “One minute I’m standing with you at the hospital and the next thing I know, I’m at my own funeral. So you know, I feel for you, Peter, but I think I’m having a way crappier week.”

“Fine, okay. Fine. So what now? I suppose you’ve got unfinished business or something I’m supposed to help you with, isn’t that the usual scenario?”

Neal looked dubious. “I suppose…”

“So if we figure out what that is, then you can move on or whatever, right?” Neal said nothing. “Right?”

Neal continued to say nothing, instead looking at Peter with an aggrieved expression.

“You don’t want to move on,” Peter said, realization dawning.

“You want to get rid of me,” Neal accused.

“I don’t.” Peter’s tone told him he was sincere. “Don’t you, though?”

“What?”

“Want to move on?”

There was a long pause, interrupted by a bang at the back door and Satchmo surging through the kitchen door. When he caught sight of Neal, he rushed over to him, tail wagging so furiously he was in danger of knocking himself over. “Satchmo!” Neal exclaimed, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. Satchmo grunted and laid himself down at Neal's feet, presenting his belly to be scratched.

“He can see you too?” Peter said.

“I guess so. Weird.”

“Hey honey,” El said as she entered the room. She took in the tableau before her – Peter standing in front of the sink, Satchmo laid out beside the counters with his feet in the air. Peter wasn’t touching him but he was squirming with delight. El regarded the dog curiously.

“Hi, hon,” Peter said, and pulled her into his arms for a kiss. Behind her back, he waved at Neal to stop exciting the dog. Satch soon gave up the game with Neal and returned to the living room.

“Done with the dishes?” El said.

“Almost.” Peter kept an eye on Neal, who was resolutely staring at the ceiling while Peter and El were kissing.

“I’ll put the game on inside and we can cuddle when you’re done, OK?”

“Sure. See you in a bit.” She left the room and Peter set about tidying up the kitchen.

“Well, I’ll be on my way then.”

“I thought you couldn’t?”

“Well, I can disappear, can’t I?” And he did just that, but his disembodied voice continued, “Don’t worry, Peter, I won’t set up shop in your bedroom or anything.”

“Well, I wasn’t even worried about that until now!” Peter pointed out. “Jeez!”

\----

The next day, Peter led a status meeting with the team in the conference room when Hughes entered. “Peter, a word?” He led Peter to his office and asked him to shut the door and take a seat. “Good work on the Henson Pharma case, by the way. However did you crack it?”

Peter cleared his throat. “A sudden insight.”

“Well, excellent job. The Assistant Director noticed and has asked for you personally on a new case.”

“Oh?”

Hughes slid a folder across his desk. “Antiquities smuggling.”

Peter opened up the folder, curious, and what he saw within made him raise his eyebrows. “Norman Spencer? Are you serious?”

Scion of old money with a capital M, Spencer was also one of the most influential gallery owners in the city. He had a reputation for being a shrewd negotiator, often accused of taking advantage of young artists and bilking them out of their profits. But there had never been any indication that the man was into anything illegal. With his reputation and his family connections in the mix, this case would be a delicate one at best.

Hughes shrugged. “So says our informant. I want you to check it out, see if there’s anything to it. The informant is Spencer’s acquisitions manager. I don’t have to tell you to be discreet.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll take care of it personally.” He rose to go.

“Oh, Peter?” Peter turned back to face Hughes. “How is the team doing without Caffrey? I know you were a pretty tight-knit group.”

Peter blinked. “Coping. It’s hard to lose such a key member of the team.” 

“And you? You and Caffrey were close.”

Peter took a second to answer. Emotional conversations were unusual for Hughes, out of character. “I, uh. Okay, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

“He’ll be missed,” Hughes said, his voice gruff.

“Thank you, sir.”

\----

Peter sat at his desk, reviewing the Spencer case file. The allegation was credible, but based solely on the informant’s say-so. Peter would have to ask Diana to run a background check on her. There were photos included, that purported to show crates of mid-16th century relics from the Ottoman Empire. They were poor quality and clearly taken on a cell phone, apparently at a warehouse rented by Spencer. Peter would have to have them authenticated - Jones could handle that.

Peter heard a faint pop from somewhere behind him. “Ooo, new case?” Neal said, suddenly peering over his shoulder. Peter jumped.

“Please don’t do that.” Neal disappeared and reappeared, seated in his customary spot across the desk, leg crossed. “You love doing that, don’t you?”

“It has its appeal. So, new case?”

“A doozie. Norman Spencer.”

Neal made a low whistle. “I have always hated that guy. He bilked me out of a commission on a Manet back in ’04.”

Something in Peter’s head clicked. “Was it the forged Manet he sold to the Whitney? Did you paint that?”

Neal didn’t answer, just smiled and looked at the ceiling angelically. “What’s he accused of?”

Peter ran down the details for Neal.  “When do we start?”

“ _We_ don’t start anything,” Peter said. “ _I_ am going to meet with the acquisitions manager and see if her story pans out. You stay here.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Well then stay out of sight. I don’t need any distractions.”

“Fine.”

Peter put Diana and Jones on checking out the background for the case and reviewed old cold cases while he waited for the results. He got a complete briefing from each of them at the end of the day and had his probie schedule a meeting with the woman for the following day.

\----

The next morning, Peter stood looking at his reflection in the mirror, then glanced down at the vanity. He dreaded his next decision. His razor sat there, innocuous, innocent, and the cause of too much difficulty lately. He was finding it next to impossible to shave without the use of his right hand, and the old electric shaver he’d gotten years ago was not nearly as effective as its manufacturers had purported it to be. He sighed.

The can of shaving cream rose from the counter and began to shake itself. Peter sighed. “You don’t have to shake it. You’d know if you ever shaved properly in life.”

“Hardy-har-har,” Neal's voice said and he materialized behind him. “Want some help? I can help.”

“I don’t – well, OK.” Peter had meant to object but really, he was too tired today. Last night was another restless one.

Neal spread shaving cream on his face, regarding him critically. He raised the razor and reached for Peter. Peter recoiled for a second. “You’re sure about this? I mean, making coffee’s one thing, but I don’t know if it’s wise for you to be wielding sharp objects.”

“You have to trust me. Don’t you trust me?”

“Fine,” Peter said begrudgingly.

In the hall, Elizabeth paused on her way down the stairs for work. She could hear Peter talking to himself in the bathroom, a new development. Her brow knit with worry, but she decided to leave it for now.

\----

“Tell me about your job” Peter asked Eileen Calhoun, Spencer’s acquisitions manager.  She impressed Peter with her professionalism and demeanor. He had half expected to encounter an embittered employee or former lover, but instead was seated across from a woman in her late 60’s. Her blonde hair shot was through with gray and done up in a chignon, and she wore a vintage Chanel suit he figured she’d gotten bespoke forty years ago. The classics never die, Neal would have said.

He met her for coffee at her duplex on the Upper West Side, which she served to him herself using her fine china service. Peter sighed to see them – his cast made holding anything an adventure; he feared for the safety of the delicate cup in his hands.

She went on in detail about her duties at the gallery, about her late-in-life career choice after a life spent running charities and raising children. Most of her husband’s portfolio had been lost in the Madoff fiasco, and while they at least hadn’t lost her home, she’d been forced to find a job to support their lifestyle and his declining health. Her society contacts had secured the position with Spencer, whose own mother had attended Sarah Lawrence with Eileen, and while she enjoyed the work she was not so loyal to her employer that she would overlook any “shenanigans” as she put it.

Several weeks ago she noticed that Spencer had been taking meetings with “some shady characters” and that their inventory was not tying to the shipment logs. When she went to the warehouse to investigate, she found the crates she’d photographed. “I looked at the paperwork for their provenance and discovered that they were forged – not very well, I might add. I think the stuff must have been stolen. I went back to get better detailed photos, but the boxes had been removed. That’s when I came to the FBI.”

“Well, I’m glad you did, Mrs. Calhoun. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be snooping around where you think there might be stolen goods. It could be dangerous.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Agent Burke.” She lifted her purse from the chair beside her and took out a pearl-handled .22 caliber handgun. “I’m packing.”

\----

Peter completed his interview with Mrs. Calhoun. She told him  that the man she believed to be Spencer’s accomplice, named Ali Duman, was due to come into the gallery that morning. Peter told her he would try to  set up a surveillance team and advised her to stay away from the gallery for the rest of the week.

When Peter closed the door to the Taurus, he wasn’t even a little surprised to find Neal seated in the passenger seat. “So, are we going to set up on this Duman character?” he asked.

“Not until we have a reason to. But it’d be good if we could get a warrant for a surveillance detail for this meeting this morning. I don’t know if we have any time.”

Neal looked at Peter as if he were simple. “Peter. You don’t need surveillance when you’ve got me. Just get within 50 yards of the place and I’m a fly on the wall. It couldn’t be easier.”

“Nah, it’d be cheating.”

Neal looked at him as he pulled to a stop at a traffic light. “What?” Peter asked.

“You’re adorable.”

“Well, it’s not as if we can act on any of information you’d be able to find out, Neal. It’d be inadmissible. I mean, what do I tell the trial judge, ‘You see your honor, our CI is a ghost and he was able to observe this conversation directly?’ Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Now you’re sulking.”

Neal thought while Peter drove in silence. “We can observe, though, can’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And if either of them does anything suspicious, you can act on it, right?”

“I can.”

“So let’s head over there and see if we can spot anything fishy.”

Peter shrugged. Dead or alive, Neal was still a bad influence. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

They arrived at the gallery in time to see Spencer leaving, alone. Peter followed him on foot, keeping a safe distance. Within minutes they were in Washington Square Park, and Peter slowed his pace as Spencer appeared to be waiting for someone at a bench near the famous arch. Peter stopped at a news stand on the corner and pretended to be engrossed in a copy of Time.

Within minutes, another man joined Spencer and they began talking. Soon, their discussion became heated, from the looks of things, and Peter wished he could’ve had Neal listen in. Duman – at least that’s who Peter presumed the new man was – was pressing an envelope on Spencer insistently. Spencer at first seemed to refuse, but Duman put a hand on his shoulder and stepped in close. He talked to Spencer in a low voice, their eyes locked on one another, and Spencer couldn’t look away. Though Peter couldn’t hear their conversation, its meaning was clear – Duman basically owned Spencer and he’d do whatever the man said. Eventually, Spencer nodded and took the envelope, shoving it into his inside jacket pocket. And to Peter’s surprise, the two men kissed passionately before going their separate ways.

Spencer headed toward the far side of the park and Peter hurried to follow. And suddenly, he saw Neal in the distance, approaching Spencer head-on. Peter didn’t know what Neal thought he was doing, but Neal walked with a purpose, head down and face obscured by his downturned hat, hands at the ready. If Peter didn’t know any better…

Peter gawked as Neal's shoulder bumped into Spencer’s and the man was thrown off his stride. Neal pivoted as he passed, put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and said a few words – of apology, of blame, Peter couldn’t tell. But when they parted, Neal was shoving the envelope he’d picked from Spencer’s pocket into his own jacket and Spencer continued on his way none the wiser. Neal passed under a large, old maple tree, its broad trunk obscuring him from Peter’s view, and never appeared on the other side. Peter stood there, expecting him, and he never emerged.

Peter stopped short, staring at the place where Neal should have been, mouth slightly agape. He didn’t know if he believed his eyes – had Neal been able to physically touch Spencer?

“Whew, did you see that?” Neal asked him, suddenly standing beside Peter.

Peter gave him The Look. He noticed that Neal was looking pale, panting as if he’d just run a four minute mile. Neal bent over, rested his hands on his knees. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Neal said.

“What just happened?” Peter asked.

“Apparently, I can become solid if I really concentrate.”

“How did you – Neal!” Neal had fallen to his hands and knees, still panting. Peter noticed he seemed to be sweating. Did ghosts sweat? “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong. I don’t know. Here.” Neal reached up and shoved the envelope into Peter’s hands, a desperate expression clouding his blue eyes. And suddenly he was gone.

“Neal? Neal!” Peter called, but he did not answer.

\----

Neal did not return the next day, or the next, but the contents of the envelope proved to be helpful.

In it were copies of bills of lading for a shipment of “modern art” from Istanbul that was due for delivery in six weeks to Spencer’s warehouse downtown. While this was far from conclusive evidence, they were similar to copies of other documents Eileen had shared with Peter, and gave him and the team time and opportunity to build a better case. Peter shared the information, if not its means of procurement, with his team and pressed them to find other reasons to secure the warrants they’d need.

Neal. Peter was concerned when he hadn’t heard from him a day later, and when one day stretched to two and three, well, he became worried. What had happened? Was he gone forever?

On the fourth day, Peter was scheduled for his annual, Bureau-mandated physical, so he took the afternoon off. After lunch with El, he headed for his doctor’s office to deal with the odious task. It was when he was bent over for his prostate exam that he once again heard a familiar voice.

“Moooon riverrrrr…” Neal sang, his eyes twinkling.

Peter glared at him but of course could say nothing until the doctor and nurse left and he was getting dressed again.

“Where did you go? What happened?” Peter asked, pulling on his shirt.

“I – don’t actually know,” Neal replied. “It was like I stopped _being_ for a while, like I was this floating consciousness, but without context, if that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t. Why do you think it happened?”

“About the only thing I can figure is that I have the ability to become corporeal if I need to, but it takes a lot out of me. Wherever I went, it recharged my batteries so to speak. I didn’t like it, it’s…empty there.” He seemed to shudder, but quickly recovered. “Did that envelope give you anything good?”

Peter filled him in.

“So what, we just sit tight until the shipment arrives?” Neal asked.

“We do.”

“Boring.”

“Well, there are still a pile of cold cases to get through. I know how much you love those,” Peter grinned.

Neal groaned. “Can’t I just rattle some chains or leave slime on the walls instead?”

“No. If you’re going to be haunting _me_ , you’re going to make yourself useful.”

“Fine,” Neal whined and followed Peter out of the examination room.

\----

They fell into their old rhythm over the next weeks, Peter teeing up cold cases for Neal to review, and Neal making his usual accurate, and occasionally brilliant, assessments of them. Peter would arrive at the office early so that Neal could work – it wouldn’t do to have the guys in the bullpen noticing the pens and files floating around Peter’s office of their own accord.

Peter didn’t know what Neal did with himself during the day when his presence would be noticed, but it was during this time that a rash of small thefts began to plague the office. Nothing major was stolen – a Quantico pen here, half of a pair of souvenir Las Vegas dice there, a rubber band ball. No one said anything aside from mentioning the missing object to an office mate, and the thefts went unnoticed by management. If Peter had known about it, he’d have told Neal to stop. Not that he would have – it amused him.

One morning, Peter was joined by Hughes in his office. “Do you mind if I have a seat?” he gestured to the guest chairs in front of Peter’s desk.

“Not at all. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Vincent Adler,” Hughes said, his words resonating in the office as if a bell had rung. Neal appeared right behind him with an audible pop. Peter forced himself to keep his eyes on Hughes.

“What about him?” Peter asked, his voice even.

“He’s popped onto the grid again.”

“Oh?”

Neal took a step forward, an intent expression on his face. He was practically hovering over Hughes.

“He’s been spotted in Havana, or so some very reliable sources have reported.”

“Has he?”

Hughes rose to leave. “Thought you might be interested.”

Peter’s eyes took on that faraway cast he got when he was thinking. “I am. Thank you.”

Neal took Hughes’ recently vacated seat. “You know what this means?”

“I do.”

“It means Adler's close to finding it.”

“Whatever ‘it’ is, yeah. Just how close did Mozzie get to building that fractal antenna, do you think?”

“If I know him, he’s finished it by now. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking my boss just gave me leave to pursue this. And I’m thinking we need to go see a man about an antenna.”

\----

Peter read that day’s Times on a bench in Central Park, enjoying an iced coffee and the warm summer sun. Then he heard the sound of a throat clearing somewhere in the bushes behind him.

“I saw a mockingbird in the park,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

“What color was it?”

He sighed. “Green.”

“Was it bright of eye?”

“Oh for chrissakes, Moz, just get over here, will you?”

“Suit.”

Peter shifted on the bench to face the newly-arrived man. “Moz.”

“ How’ve you been?”

“As well as can be expected. And you?”

“Day by day, you know?” Moz replied, his voice a little thick. He took off his glasses and polished them with the tail of his shirt.

“Vincent Adler is in Havana,” Peter said.

“Is he? Do you suppose he’s vacationing or availing himself of their lax banking regulations?”

“Oh, I’m sure a bit of both. Tell me, Moz, did you ever finish the antenna?”

A sad look crossed over Moz’s face. “No. I couldn’t. Not without him.”

Peter tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh. I understand. Do you still have the equation?”

Moz tapped this forefinger against his temple.

“It’d be a shame for Adler to get what he wants,” Peter said.

“I prefer not to think about it much.” He stood and extended his hand. “Take care of yourself, Suit.”

Peter rose and shook his hand. “You too, Mozzie.” He watched him go with a sigh.

“You think he’s telling the truth?” Peter asked Neal, who stood beside him with his hands in his pockets, squinting in the afternoon sun as he watched Moz’s retreating back.

“I saw none of his tells.”

“Then I guess we’re back to square one.”

\----

The next day, Peter convened a strategy meeting for the team leads for the raid in the Spencer case. They’d gotten their wiretap warrant and Jones had been supervising that team for the last two weeks. The day for the expected shipment was in three days, and Peter wanted it to go off without a hitch.

At the end of the meeting, while he went to report on the plan to Hughes, Diana popped into his office to retrieve a file. Spotting the stack of cold cases on the edge of his desk, she decided to take them off his hands. Her boss had been running himself ragged lately – she figured he was in need of distraction after Neal's death, and she didn’t begrudge him – but she didn’t think he needed the added frustration of going through cold cases.

She dumped them on her desk and went to get a cup of coffee, prepared to settle in for the afternoon with them. She opened the one on top, a suspected boiler room case that had picked up stakes and left town months ago, and flipped through the papers and evidence inside. She noticed some note pages tucked inside that were covered in a neat, blocky handwriting, like an architect’s. She recognized Neal's handwriting with a pang of sadness; he must have worked on this one before…before.

She read through his notes and found they referenced another, more recent case out of Hartford that she was familiar with. She opened her desk drawer to retrieve that file and found the same, neat lettering on Post-its affixed to several of the pages inside.

“Huh,” she said, paging through them. The notes were accurate and incisive – not unexpected given Neal's past contributions to cases – but they had not been there when she’d last worked on the file nearly a month ago.

Diana looked up, looking around suspiciously at the people on her floor. Was someone playing a really bad and tasteless joke? She flipped through the files, found one she was familiar with and opened it. Again, notes clearly written by Neal were inside, accompanied by a little doodle she recognized – a tiny reproduction of [da Vinci’s self portrait](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Leonardo_self.jpg) she’d seen Neal draw while bored in meetings at least a dozen times. She knew with certainty that these notes weren’t there the last time she reviewed the file.

She jumped when her phone rang. “Berrigan,” she said, answering. It was the lobby desk – she had a visitor.

\----

“Mozzie!” Diana greeted her visitor warmly when she saw him. He was standing nervously near the metal detectors at the main entrance, looking like he might bolt at any second.

“Lady Suit,” he said, but gave her a smile.

Diana was happier to see him than she’d have thought, and was surprised to realize she’d missed him over the last several weeks. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see Peter, but he wasn’t in his office. I have something to show him.”

“Well, come on up and I’ll find him for you.” She got him a Visitor’s badge – signing him in as Dr. [Jack Griffin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Invisible_Man_\(film\)) – and escorted him to the 21st floor.

\----

“It’s good to see you again,” Peter said as he walked into his office. He was surprised to see Moz so soon. He gestured for him to take a seat.

Moz did so, but stayed perched nervously on the edge of the chair, back as straight as a rod. Peter looked at him expectantly. Moz’s eyes shifted. “I…may not have been forthcoming yesterday when we met.”

“Oh?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Moz pulled a large envelope out of the messenger bag he had slung across his body and slid it across the desk to Peter. It contained a photograph. “A fractal antenna?” Peter guessed.

“ _The_ fractal antenna. I built it.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “And this is it?”

“Well, it’s a little unwieldy for the subway.”

“Does it work?”

“It does.”

“And?” Peter tried not to seem impatient, but this back-and-forth was exasperating.

“The signal is weak, but it appears to originate in Aruba. I can’t get a lock on the location beyond a hundred mile radius, though. Was hoping you might be able to help with that.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll require satellite data to get an exact location. I can’t swing that.”

Peter raised an eyebrow and looked at him. “You know, if we do this, we do it my way. Above board, with the Bureau behind it.”

Moz took off his glasses and breathed on them, polishing them on the tail of his shirt. “If it means Adler goes down, then I’m in. I’m doing this for Neal, to finish what he started. I don’t care what’s down there.”

“Yeah. Me too. So tell me what you need.”

\----

Peter stayed at the office very late that night. With the Spencer case so close to a resolution and the Adler thing coming up, there was much to prepare for. He was working through a proposal to Hughes for the resources he’d need for the Adler sting when he noticed a cup of coffee floating up the stairs toward him.

“Cut that out!”

Neal materialized in his doorway, cup in hand. “Aw, come on, it’s the last of June's Italian roast. I had some in my desk.”

“Well, in that case…” Peter took the cup and inhaled its aroma appreciatively. “You never did tell me where she gets this.”

“Maybe, someday. Before I finally shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“Or immortal coil.”

“Potato, potahto.” Neal's manner was flippant in that way that Peter knew meant something was bothering him. “So did Hughes approve the funds for the Adler thing?”

“Not yet. I have to give him a proposal. Lots of paperwork. Why?”

“Just, you know, do you think it’s really worth all this trouble?”

There it was. “To bring the biggest crook of the century to justice? To make him pay for what he did to you and to Kate? I think it is. Don’t you?”

Neal crossed the room, stared out over the darkening city, arms crossed across his chest. “I’m no longer so sure. You’d be surprised the perspective being dead gives you. You realize other things matter more.”

“Such as?”

“People. Relationships.” He paused. “Adler's a dangerous man, Peter. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want you to be…like me. Not if I can help it.” He flicked his eyes over at Peter briefly, and Peter thought he saw a faint suggestion of tears.

“I can take care of myself, Neal.”

“That’s what Kate thought. I don’t want you to do this, Peter.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“For you.”

Neal turned to face him, and the pain and fear on his face almost broke Peter’s resolve. He shook his head. “Don’t.” he begged.

“I have to,” Peter repeated.

Neal hung his head and disappeared.

“Crap,” Peter muttered and went back to his proposal.

\----

Neal stayed away for two days. With the Spencer operation coming to fruition, Peter hardly had the time to miss him, but in those moments when he did, the emptiness was so acute it was almost unbearable.

Neal finally turned up on the morning of the takedown, seated in the passenger seat of the Taurus as Peter crossed the bridge, fairly bouncing with excitement. “Today’s the day?”

“Yep. Big sting on Norman Spencer.” 

“Love it when a plan comes together.”

“You are unusually excited,” Peter observed.

“Have I told you how much I hate that guy?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice.” In truth, Neal had talked of it almost daily. “Where’ve you been?”

Neal calmed immediately, stared out the window. “Around. I’m never far, Peter. I can’t be.”

“But you just left. I needed you.”

Neal turned his head to look at him, an intent expression in his eyes. “You did?”

Peter glanced over at him, then back at traffic. “I always need you, Neal.”

Neal didn’t respond, just smiled, but with a hint of sadness or regret in his eyes that Peter did not see. They rode the rest of the way to Federal Plaza in silence.

\----

Six hours later, Peter stood in the surveillance van, listening in on the chatter inside the warehouse. When it became clear that the shipment had arrived and that Spencer was inspecting it, he ordered the doors to be brought down and the teams to move in. Diana and Jones led the strike teams, one at each door of the warehouse; Peter wanted to let them have the experience, plus his wrist was troubling him that day; the cast had only been off for two days.

When the building had been secured, he strode into the space and introduced himself. “Special Agent Peter Burke. Norman Spencer, you are under arrest for the illegal smuggling of Turkish antiquities.”

Spencer stood with his hands cuffed behind him, a smirk on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing like that here.

“We’ll just see about that,” Peter said. He strode over to the line of large wooden crates along the far wall and ordered them to be opened. Jones and another agent produced crowbars from somewhere and pried them open. Inside were…light fixtures, and decorative glass, and cheap statuary.

“What is this?” Peter said.

“My cousin owns a line of home furnishing stores. This is just some of his inventory I agreed to keep for him.”

“Jones!” Peter yelled, and walked with him to the far end of the room. “What is going on?”

“Peter, we had him dead to rights. The shipment was coming today. Maybe someone tipped him off?”

“I want you to open every box and crate in here. Those antiquities are here, I know it” Peter told him and watched as his agents carried out his orders.

It soon became clear that no stolen items were going to be found. Peter was seething. “Check next door,” came a voice beside him.

Peter gave Neal a sidelong glance. “What?”

“I popped next door. The shipment’s there.”

“How do you know?”

“I went inside the crates.”

“You can do that?”

“I can do a lot of things.”

“We can’t go over there. The warrant only covers this address. This is just freaking great!” Peter started to pace.

“I’ve got it covered,” Neal said and vanished.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Peter hissed.

“Just how long are you going to be keeping me detained like this, Agents?” Spencer was complaining, loudly. “I’ll sue you all personally, you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Peter muttered under his breath as Neal popped back into the room.

“It’s in the bag,” Neal said, a smug expression on his face.

“What-?”

“Do I smell smoke?” Neal said, a twinkle in his eye.

“Is something on fire?” someone said.

“Fire?” someone else echoed. “It’s next door.”

Peter jumped to action, ordering one agent to call the fire department and others to break into the adjoining warehouse to see if they could put it out. When he looked over at Spence, the man had gone pale and quiet. Peter wondered if it was because he’d been caught with the stolen materials or because they were in danger of being engulfed in flames. When they went over to investigate, the agents found the fire was merely a wad of newspaper set aflame in a waste basket. But unpacked across several tables in the room were the expected artifacts, in plain view.

Peter was beside himself with satisfaction. “Excellent work, everyone. Jones, have CSU catalog this evidence.” He turned to leave, a twinkle of pride in his eyes as he looked at Neal. “Quick thinking,” he muttered under his breath as they left the building.

“Well, if it’s one thing I know all about, it’s exigent circumstances,” Neal said with a grin.

“It’s not like we could let the place burn to the ground, could we?”

“And whatever you find out in the open, well, that’s evidence, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

\----

As the team was celebrating the end of the case in the conference room that evening, Hughes came in and made a speech thanking them. He approached Peter on his way out of the room. “Peter, I’d like a word?”

They went to Hughes’ office and he closed the door behind him, gestured for Peter to take a seat at the small conference table. “I took your request for funding for the Adler case to the Assistant Director. It’s approved. You can have whatever you want if it means you bring the man in.”

Peter grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

“But listen Peter, I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this will be. Adler has infiltrated OPR and the FBI in the past, there’s no telling how far his reach extends. You’ll need to play this one close to the vest. Keep it out of the usual channels. Do what you have to, keep me informed, and watch yourself. I mean it.”

“I’ll put a team together immediately. Thank you for going to bat for me on this, Reese. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

“Easier than you think. Just make sure you catch the son of a bitch.”

\----

Peter stood in his kitchen, spinning salad greens dry. “So, Hughes gave you the funding to go after Adler?” Neal said. He was sitting on the counter, Indian style.

Peter jumped and fixed him with a glare. He’d stopped asking him not to pop in unannounced weeks ago – it had done no good. “We’ve got carte blanche. The Assistant Director wants this as badly as we do.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Peter began chopping up a tomato. “Your concerns have been noted. And put into practice, actually. The operation is officially off the books. There’s no paper trail and I’m running it under the radar, to ensure everyone’s safety. Adler's proven to have a long reach and we don’t want him to see this coming. Aside from the team, Hughes and the AD, no one knows a thing.”

Neal nodded, processing. At least Peter was taking precautions. “Good. And how do you expect to operate down in Aruba? It’s not like they’re under the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

“That’s where Sara Ellis comes in. She’s got local contacts. Sterling Bosch’s reach is longer than Vincent Adler's.”

Neal made an impressed face. “I guess you’re resurrecting Burke’s Seven.”

Peter smiled. “Six. There’s no way El’s getting anywhere near this.”

“Maybe Burke’s Five. Do I even count?”

Peter gave him a look. “Of course you count.” He read the instructions on the Good Seasons packet and began mixing up some salad dressing.

“What if Adler gets there first?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Come on, Neal, I thought you’d be excited. We get to go to a Caribbean island.” Peter waggled his eyebrows. The oven timer dinged and he went to check on the roasted rosemary chicken and potatoes he had in there. Besides pot roast, it was the one thing Peter knew how to make.

“Smells good,” Neal commented.

“You can smell?”

“Don’t be such a life-ist. Of course I can smell.”

Peter held the pan out to him to inspect. “What do you think?”

“Looks good. Maybe some lemon zest?”

“Lemon it is.” He placed the pan on the stovetop and kicked the oven closed with his foot. The lemons were in a bowl on the counter behind Neal. “Now get out of my way, El will be home any minute and I want to set the table.”

Neal vanished, rematerializing on the other side of the room.

Peter shook his head. “Stop showing off.”

“Jealous?”

\----

El stood outside the door to the kitchen, a worried expression clouding her features. She’d been home less than five minutes. When she heard Peter’s voice in the kitchen, she figured he was just talking back to the radio station. But there were no other sounds coming from in there, and when she heard _Come on, Neal_ , she felt a cold stab of alarm in her belly.

Peter and Neal had been close, she knew. She considered the ex-con a very close friend herself, so she could imagine that Peter’s feelings ran much deeper. But she felt he hadn’t allowed himself to mourn the young man’s passing properly, instead throwing himself into his work. She had thought it was his way of coping. But he seemed almost normal lately – happy even, and that couldn’t be right. Surely it was too soon.

Now she thought she knew why, and it terrified her. Her husband was losing his mind.

 _El will be home any minute_ , she heard Peter say. She jumped at that, realizing she didn’t want to be caught out. She tiptoed back to the inner door from the vestibule and shut it loudly. Satch barked from inside the kitchen.

“I’m home!” she called.

“Sweetie!” Peter greeted her cheerfully as he entered the room and kissed her hello.

“Something smells good,” she said.

“I made rosemary chicken. Want some wine?”

“Oh, yes, please.” She followed him towards the kitchen, where he stopped short just inside the door. He turned to her and blocked her from the room.

“It’s, uh, a little messy in there, El. I’ll get it. You relax, OK?”

She looked him in the eyes and saw evasion there. She didn’t press it. “Sure.”

When Peter returned to the kitchen, he grabbed the floating bottle of wine from the air. “I have told you – no parlor tricks in the house. You’ll freak Elizabeth out.” Satchmo barked as if for emphasis.

“Sor-ree,” Neal said, materializing. “I wanted to help out.”

“Please don’t. I hate lying to El about you.”

“I’ve told you not to,” Neal pointed out.

“Well, it’s not up to you. I’ll tell her. Eventually. Just not yet.”

“Fine.”

Peter took two glasses of white wine into the living room where he sat with his wife. She took a rather large swig and set it down on the coffee table. “Honey, is everything OK with you?” she asked him, blurting it out. She couldn’t keep her concerns to herself.

“Of course. Why?”

“I heard you talking to yourself before.”

“People do that all the time, don’t they?” He tried not to let his eyes go all shifty. He was unsuccessful.

“Well, I’m sure _they_ do. But _you_ don’t. At least, you’ve never done it before. Is everything OK? I’m worried that maybe you’re working yourself too hard. And after Neal –“

He nodded, took a deep breath, biding some time. She’d clearly heard him talking to Neal. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “Sweetie, I love you. I love that you’re worried for me. And you’re right; I have been working really hard, and it’s because of Neal. It’s just made it easier.”

She took both his hands in hers and squeezed.

Peter took a deep breath and continued. “But there’s something I need to tell you, something important. This week, we made some really important progress in finding whatever it is that damn music box points to, and if we do, then maybe we’ll find Vincent Adler, too.”

“Oh, Peter, really?”

He nodded. “So what you may have heard me doing inside the kitchen was, I don’t know, my way of processing everything, I guess. It…helps if I talk it through with, um, with Neal.”

Suddenly tearful, El threw her arms around Peter’s neck. “Oh, Peter!”

Somewhere behind Elizabeth, Neal materialized, eyebrows raised. “Nice save,” he said sarcastically. Peter ignored him.

Peter held her tight, drawing strength from her he didn’t deserve - the strength to keep lying to her. “So, I don’t expect you to understand it -”

She let him go and put a hand on his cheek. “I understand, I do. I do.” She wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers.

“You lying bastard,” Neal commented. “She probably thought you were going crazy.”

“So I guess that’s what the rosemary chicken is for? You’re buttering me up?” she continued.

This time, the guilt Peter showed was for the right reason. “Yeah. You see, there’s a complication with this case.”

Peter explained what he safely could to his wife about the case and his plans for its resolution. “So, I’m hoping we can use the house as our base again. It’ll be safer than doing it at the Bureau.”

“Of course, honey,” she said with a smile. “I guess Burke’s Crew rides again, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah!” Neal said, giving two thumbs up and a fake smile. He rolled his eyes.

\----

Peter spent the next two days tying up loose ends on the Spencer case and lining up his team for the Adler affair. Despite his fears, everyone was more than willing to pitch in. Some – like Sara – were downright enthusiastic. Some of her family members had been victims of Adler's Ponzi scheme eight years ago, and she could smell blood.

Peter scheduled a planning meeting for that Friday. In the meantime, he wanted to work out with Moz how to get a better lock on the location of the radio signal in Aruba.

“Dr. Griffin” arrived at Federal Plaza late one afternoon, and laid out his findings for Peter.

“These are the specs of the antenna, the frequency is indicated here. I was able to pick up a signal –“

“How? It must have been difficult to triangulate.”

Moz launched into a complicated explanation that went straight over Peter’s head. By the end, he was convinced Moz knew what he was doing and what it would take to narrow in on the signal’s location. “Tell me what you need.”

“I’ll need access to the Global SATCOM network.”

“Yeah. Not going to happen. What’s plan B?”

“That was plan B, Suit. Without the satellite network to help triangulate it, what we’ve got is a 100 mile sandbox to sift through. Most of it water.”

Peter thought it through. Hughes would have to go to bat for them. “Fine. You write up the specs of what you need and we’ll see what we can do. You’re getting nowhere near it.”

Moz didn’t hide his disappointment. “As long as it gets us to our destination, I won’t complain. Much.”

“Get it to me by the end of the day, and hopefully we’ll have something by the end of the week. I’ll set you up in the conference room.”

Moz nodded and followed Peter into the adjoining room. He pulled out his laptop and notes and started putting together a list and instructions.

An hour later, he heard a step in the doorway. “Hey Mozzie,” Diana said. “You got a minute?”

He smiled to see her, but then gave her his best anti-establishment scowl. “I suppose, Lady Suit.”

“I wanna show you some files.”

Moz’s face lit up at the prospect of viewing secret government documents. “The Kennedy Assassination?  Lindbergh kidnapping?”

“Keep it in your pants, they’re cold cases of ours. I’d like your opinion on something.”

“Sure.”

She sat down beside him and laid the files out. “This is the first one I noticed. Look.” She pointed at the notes pages.

Moz felt a momentary pang of grief to see his friend’s handwriting, but sucked it up. “These are Neal's notes.”

“Yes. Not at all unusual. Peter would often have him take a look through old cases, to see what he thought.”

“Just another example of the Man subjugating the downtrodden masses-“

“Mozzie, please. Focus. Look at this one, and this, and this.” She laid out file after file for him, Moz’s photographic memory taking in the details and processing them.

“Wait a second,” he said eventually, putting a hand on her arm. “Go back.” He peered closer at a file, running his fingers over the writing on a single Post-it. _Check known aliases for Ethan Anders_ , it read.

“Ethan Anders? That only just happened.” Ethan Anders was a counterfeiter that had just been apprehended out in Dallas. The case had made the national news two weeks before because he’d managed to reproduce the supposedly uncrackable security strip on the 50 Euro note.

“Exactly,” Diana said, an intent look on her face.

“Then how are these Neal's notes?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could help me get to the bottom of it.”

“Why me? Aren’t there other agents you could talk to?”

“And say what, exactly? That someone is forging notes on cold cases in the handwriting of a dead man? And how do I explain it to the boss? I need to figure this out myself.”

Mozzie’s eyes clouded with thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve experienced any strange cold spots in the office, or seen anything out of the ordinary?”

“What? Are you kidding?”

“’I can believe anything provided it is incredible.’ Oscar Wilde.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “ ‘I call bullshit.’ Diana Berrigan.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Lady Suit, than are dreamt of in _your_ philosophy.”

“One more quotation and I swear-“

Mozzie spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Fine. But surely somewhere between my explanation and yours lies the truth. If these are forgeries, who would want to do them?”

“But what makes your mind leap straight to a supernatural explanation? I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Moz reached out and grabbed her hand. “When I was a boy in foster care, there was a kind old lady named Flora that would come and talk to me when I was feeling lonely.  She’d sing to me and tell me stories, and it made me feel better. A few years later, I found out that she was the wife of the man who built the group home I was in, and that she’d been haunting the place for thirty years. I looked it up – found her picture in the local news archives. That woman helped me, as I’m sure she helps other lonely kids to this day. So maybe the dead do stick around in some way after they’re gone, and maybe that’s what’s happening here.”

They looked at each other for a long minute. She could tell that Moz believed in his story, and they both wanted to think that Neal could somehow still be with them. She smiled a kind smile. “So, do you really think Caffrey would come back to finish his paperwork?”

Moz returned the smile and dropped her hand. “It seems unlikely.” They sat silently for a minute, each engrossed in thought. Mozzie finally spoke, “Hey, I’m done here. Will you give Peter this list of specs?”

“Sure. I’ll escort you down.” Moz gathered his things and followed her down the stairs. When they were almost through the door, he realized he’d forgotten something and asked her for his notes back. Taking a seat at the desk nearest the door – the one that had been Neal's – he searched around for a pen. Not finding one, he opened the right hand desk drawer and startled as a number of items fell out of it to the floor. The drawer was overflowing with unrelated items – novelty pencils, stress balls, magnet sculptures, Beanie Babies.

Diana recognized a small framed photo of her and Christy in there and walked around the desk. “What is this?” She closed the drawer and opened the one beneath it. A similar cache of trivial personal items from around the office were to be found inside. Diana gasped a little, and leaned back against the desk.

“What is it?” Moz asked.

Diana shook her head. “All this…stuff. It belongs to people around the office. Neal used to amuse himself by lifting things from people’s desks in plain sight. He’d return whatever he took when you asked, but the game was that you had to try to catch him. And you’d never know what he’d go for or when. One time, he got my car keys. They were in my pants pocket. I still have no idea how he did it.”

They shared a look that said all they needed to say. Somehow, Neal was back.

\----

By Friday evening’s meeting with the team, almost everything was in place. The only missing piece to the puzzle was the coordinates.  Preparations had been made, flights scheduled, resources brought to bear.

Peter was handing out assignments. “Jones, I want you in charge of comms and transportation. See what you can glean from local chatter. Sara, if you could work your mojo with local your local contacts; we'll see how Sterling-Bosch's influence can help us. Mozzie, if you can provide technical, networking and tactical support, that’d be great. We’ll keep you out of the line of fire.”

Moz nodded, relieved to be kept in the background. Peter continued, “Diana, it’ll be you and me on the inside.  I don’t know what will be asked of you on the ground, we can’t until we know exactly where we’re going, but,” he smiled, “you’re flexible. We’ll think of something.”

Diana smiled back. They’d make it work.

“I don’t need to tell you all how potentially dangerous this will be. Not only might your careers and reputations be on the line, but your actual safety. Vincent Adler is a dangerous man, and he’s proven capable of killing for whatever is down there. We’ll need to step cautiously.”

“You got it, Peter,” Jones said, a determined look on his face.

“Hear, hear,” Moz rumbled, trying to sound like a part of something. Diana just grinned.

Elizabeth had prepared spaghetti carbonara for everyone, so they spent the remainder of the evening in light conversation, eating, drinking and laughing as if they weren’t all just about to make the biggest gamble of their careers.

Jones was the first to leave – his girl was expecting him at the end of the night. He offered Sara a ride – they lived in roughly the same direction – and they took their leave with full bellies and hopes for a successful resolution to the case. Moz and Diana remained behind, drinking deeply of the red wine Moz had brought (the last of Neal's stash) and chatting about meaningless topics. When Elizabeth decided to call it a night, they shared a meaningful look with each other, as if wondering if they ought to approach Peter with their findings earlier in the week.

Peter caught their look immediately. “What is it?”

Moz and Diana looked at each other, a series of micro expressions betraying their mental back and forth. “Fine,” Diana finally said and rolled her eyes.

“Something fishy had been going on and we wanted to bring it up.”

Peter looked at her expectantly and she almost lost her nerve – it was too ridiculous. Instead, she let the evidence she’d collected from the cold case files do the talking for her, showing him the notes that clearly post-dated Neal's death and leaving it to him to draw any conclusions.

Peter hung his head and Diana wanted to climb into a hole in the ground and never leave it. She could see his obvious pain and immediately regretted bringing this up. She glanced at Moz nervously, but Moz was watching Peter closely. “He already knows,” Moz said quietly.

“What?” Diana said. “Boss? Is that true?”

Peter looked up at them, his expression neutral, but his reddening face betrayed the truth. “It is.”

“I knew it!” Moz said, pointing at him.

Diana glanced from one man to the other. “Well this is unbelievable. How did you know Neal was haunting the office?”

“Well, he’s not exactly haunting just the office. He’s haunting _me_.”

“What? Have you seen him? How long has this been going on?” Moz asked. His eyes were wide with amazement and excitement.

“I see him every day. He’s been with me since the funeral.”

“Is he here right now?”

Peter nodded. And Neal was, leaning against the wall by the back door, hands on his pockets and a pained expression on his face.

Moz blinked, realization dawning. “And you didn’t say anything? _He_ didn’t say anything? Does he know what I’ve gone through?” He spoke loudly to the ceiling, “Do you know what I’ve gone through?”

He was truly upset, and Peter felt for him, but he was talking too loudly. “Keep your voice down – El doesn’t know. Anyway, he’s right over there.” Peter gestured vaguely in Neal's direction

Moz nodded, took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them, they were bright with unshed tears. “Tell him he owes me 500 bucks. Oh, and thanks for the heads up from the great beyond. Asshole.” Moz left the house, closing the door as quietly as his agitated state allowed.

“Fuck!” Neal yelled and kicked the wall. The door frame rattled as Neal disappeared, startling Diana.

“Jesus, was that him?” Diana breathed.

Peter nodded. “He’s gone now. Shit, I should’ve said something, but I just thought I was going crazy for a while there, you know?”

“I do. Moz’ll get over it.”

“I hope so, because if all goes well, we’ll be in Aruba by Monday.”

\----

An hour later, Peter spotted a familiar silhouette at the corner of his block as he was taking Satch for a walk. “Moz,” he said tentatively when he walked up to him.”

“Is he OK? I mean, is he in pain or anything?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did he say why he came back?”

“I don’t think even he knows.”

“Tell him we have to have a long talk.”

“I will. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Peter continued on with Satch on their usual route, and Moz turned to head for the subway, pausing to take a deep breath.

Neal materialized behind him and, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see or hear him, put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Moz, but it’s not like I had a choice in any of this,” he said sadly, and disappeared again.

Moz looked around, startled. Had he heard something? “Neal?”

\----

A week later, Peter Burke sat in an outdoor café in Oranjestad, watching as a meeting took place across the square. Sara was with her contact in the local government, an aide to the city’s mayor, trying to gain the support of local officials so that their investigation could proceed.

Once the satellite analysis was completed, the location of the signal appeared to originate somewhere on the grounds of Governor’s College, a private university located on a former plantation that had flourished under colonial rule. If the team – and in particular, Sara – could secure the local authorities’ cooperation, then everything would go much more smoothly. It was a delicate business; there was no way of knowing whether Adler had any of these men in his pocket already.  Peter’s operating assumption was that he had. Sara’s company Sterling Bosch, however, had located its off-shore headquarters on the island, and he hoped their influence and continued business trumped Adler’s bribes.

The meeting concluded, Sara strode across the plaza to join Peter. She was clad in a simple navy blue linen dress paired with a floppy, wide-brimmed hat that kept the sun off her pale shoulders.

“She looks fetching, does she not?” Neal said.

Neal pulled her chair out for her as she approached. Peter sniped at him - “Cut it out.”

Sara didn’t notice, taking the seat and ordering sparkling water from the waiter when he asked. Neal took a seat at an adjoining table.

“How’d it go?” Peter asked.

“It’s always a slog down here, but we’ve made a little headway. He’ll introduce us to the mayor if our bribe’s big enough, and from there it’s an automatic ‘in’ with local law enforcement. Or so goes the theory. This thing, whatever it is, had better be big.”

“I’m sure Sterling Bosch will recoup its investment.”

“Investment nothing – I’m just hoping this is as exciting as the build up.” Sara smiled winningly and sipped at her water. “Have the others made any progress?”

“Jones and Diana are set up on the university, but it’s a bit daunting to monitor all the comings and goings. Moz is delving into communications and any big transactions locally. See if we can find evidence of another operation similar to ours.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Well, I’ve got a hot date with the mayor I’d better go get ready for. Wanna head back to the hotel with me?”

“Nah, I’ll stay here,” Peter said. “Think through the plan again.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll see you later.”

She walked away and Peter settled back into his chair. He ordered a beer and sipped at it thoughtfully. He glanced over and noticed Neal had disappeared again. He sighed. Neal had been reluctant to come here, and had been making a pest of himself. Peter wondered if Neal's lack of interest in finishing the case stemmed from his true reason for having returned. If, as popular theories were to be believed, spirits haunted people or places because they had unfinished business, then Adler was a pretty big piece of unfinished business for Neal. Peter couldn’t understand Neal's hesitation, he didn’t know why he wouldn’t want to be at rest.

Not that any of them were able to rest lately. The case had everyone on edge, despite the glamorous locale, and Peter was wishing it was over already, one way or the other. Things were still strained with Moz, and Peter could tell it was upsetting to Neal. He kept leaving him gifts which Moz rejected, putting them in the trash. Finally, Moz took to lighting sage bundles around his hotel room which, while completely ineffective, at least got the message to Neal that he needed to back off a bit if his friend was going to forgive him.

Peter hoped Moz would get over it soon, because he didn’t want anything to distract from their purpose down here. Sara’s progress with the locals had been slower than he’d anticipated, and though he knew it was a necessary evil, the bribes were getting out of hand. He was grateful Sterling-Bosch was footing the bill on that one because he didn’t know how he’d explain the expenses to Hughes and the Assistant Director.

A breeze picked up, and on it came a faint scent of cigar smoke. A shadow fell across Peter’s face and he looked up. A man stood there, his face obscured by the sun, but Peter could tell he was clad in a tan linen suit and open-necked shirt. “Is that seat taken?” he asked, indicating the one recently vacated by Sara.

“Vincent Adler,” Peter said, standing and extending a hand. They shook. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Adler replied, taking a puff on his cigar and leaning it in an ashtray on the table. They sat and Adler called the waiter over and ordered a mojito and another beer for Peter. “I’m surprised the FBI would fund such a boondoggle.”

“I wouldn’t call it a boondoggle if it snags the biggest crook in a century,” Peter observed, taking a swig from his beer bottle.

“I wouldn’t count on it. The extradition laws down here are very…convenient. About all you’d accomplish here is making yourself a spoiler. No one likes a spoilsport, Agent Burke.”

“No one likes a murderer either.”

“Let’s not resort to name-calling,” Adler said mildly.

They sat and sipped at their drinks for a few minutes. “Your people were able to build the antenna?”

Peter smiled. “Yes, despite your best efforts to prevent it.”

“You know where it is, then?”

Peter looked at him and realized immediately – Adler didn’t know the exact coordinates. “You’d be surprised what you can accomplish with a few billion in DoD spy satellites.”

“I don’t suppose you could be tempted…”

“No. Keep your money. You’ll need it to mount your defense when I bring you home.”

Adler smiled, tried another tack. “But your lovely wife Elizabeth, surely she’d enjoy a vacation, to get away from it all.”

Peter returned the smile, leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were dangerous. “You even suggest harming my wife, Adler, and I’ll end you. You’ve got nothing to hold over me. I won’t dance on your puppet strings like Fowler did.”

Adler held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Fair enough, but you can’t blame me for trying. Listen, I was saddened to hear of the death of my former protégé, Mr. Caffrey. It must have been a blow. I’ve heard how close you two were.”

Peter blinked, thrown off his game for a second.  “Your condolences are noted.”

“His was a rare talent. And to be struck down at such a young age, well, that’s a tragedy in and of itself, isn’t it?”

“Did you have another point to make?”

“I suppose not. I just wanted to check in.” He stood, extended his hand. “Happy hunting, Agent Burke.”

Peter did not take the proffered hand, instead taking another sip at his beer. Adler walked away.

“He would leave you with the bill for the drinks,” Neal said in Peter’s ear.

Peter let out the breath he’d been holding. “What a tool. You really admired that guy?”

“I was young, impressionable,” Neal said, taking a seat.

“You heard what he said?”

“Yeah. He hasn’t a clue where the signal originates. We need to move fast while we have the advantage.”

“Let’s hope Sara’s successful with the mayor.”

\----

Peter returned to the hotel, where he stepped up to Mozzie’s door and heard a crack. He looked down, and the word “Sorry” was spelled out in tiny pink seashells in front of the door. “Awww,” he commented, knocking.

“Be nice,” Neal said.

“You should say it with flowers.”

“Shut up.”

“Suit,” Moz said, opening the door.

“Status meeting in my room in an hour. You’ll never guess who I just saw.”

“Given your affinity to the spirit world, I imagine it could be anyone. George Washington? A Kennedy?”

“Get over it now, Mozzie, come on. It’s not like he had any control over it, you know.”

Moz just turned his chin up stubbornly. “Who’d you see?”

“Adler.”

Moz whistled low. “We’re getting to him.”

“Yep. And get this – he doesn’t have the exact coordinates. We have to make our move, and make it soon.”

“I won’t say I’m not happy this will all finally be over.”

“Me too – see you later.”

\----

Moz sat down at the desk in his room, thinking over the events of the last few days. To finally see this all brought to an end was almost unbelievable. Vincent Adler had cost him and those he cared about far too much over the years, and he hoped it would all end with the man behind bars, where he rightly belonged. Moz had no problem with the moral ambiguity of wishing a notorious felon to be jailed when he himself was a pretty accomplished criminal. It had nothing to do with law, but everything to do with justice. For a man like Adler to lose his freedom and ability to control the people and events in his life – that would be the ultimate torture for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he picked up some movement. When he turned his head, a pencil was writing of its own volition on the pad of vellum that sat on the edge of the desk. He sighed.

“ _Got maps?_ ” Neal wrote.

“Of the college? Jones is supposed to be getting them.”

“ _Good_.”

“If the signal’s coming from the Administration building on the college, we’ll want to know the layout beforehand. It’s a big building.”

“W _hat do you think’s down there_.”

“Don’t know and don’t care.”

“ _Will the locals cooperate?_ ”

“Diana’s working the Dean of the college just in case they don’t. Either way, this thing’ll be over in a day, two tops.”

“ _Be careful_. _All of you_.”

“Don’t worry – this guy’s cost me enough. I’ll be nothing but careful.”

There followed an easy silence that Moz almost enjoyed. The pencil floated expectantly over the paper. “I really miss you, you know that? I wish I could see your face.”

The page on the pad flipped over and the pencil began to draw a quick but accurate self-portrait of Neal Caffrey.

“Nice,” Moz chuckled.

The pencil then wrote a series of characters on the bottom of the page, which was then ripped from the pad and pushed across the desk.

Moz peered at it and grinned. “Is that the access code for the Swiss accounts?”

“ _Yes_.”

“OK, you’re forgiven.”

\----

The team converged on Peter’s room one by one. Sara was the last to arrive. She looked angry.

“Strike out with the mayor?” Peter asked.

She nodded, frowning. “But not before he took my money. He’s in Adler's pocket. So are the local police. I might be able to see the Governor tonight. His wife went to Wellesley with the wife of the CEO of Sterling-Bosch. It’s thin, but what else am I going to do?”

Peter squeezed her on the shoulder. She really was working this hard. “It’s appreciated.” He looked at Diana. “Did you have any luck with the dean?”

Diana smiled. “I think I’ve got him to agree to let us at least have a look around.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Peter couldn’t suppress a smile. “Because I had a visitor this afternoon, and it means we’re going to have to make our move soon.” He related his conversation with Adler to them all. “He clearly has no idea where the signal originates. We have to move now. Diana, do you think we could persuade the dean to give us that tour in the morning?”

She nodded. “I think so. I think he likes a strong woman.”

Peter didn’t want to read between the lines on that one.

“Visions of ball gags and leather!” Neal exclaimed. 

Peter gave him a dirty look. “Jones, were you able to get the blueprints for the building?”

They worked into the night, planning out the next day’s events. One way or another, this was all going to be over by this time the following evening.  


\----

Dean Schreuders, thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Peter said, accepting the man’s proffered hand and shaking it.

“Agent Burke, it is my pleasure to offer you a tour of our little college. You say that your President is considering a visit to Aruba?”

“I can’t say that, but what I can say is that it occasionally falls to the FBI to do advance security checks of any potential sites of a state visit, and while I can neither confirm nor deny such a visit is scheduled, I can say that we are thus far very impressed with the welcome we’ve had in your country.”

“I’m glad to see I’ve rubbed off on you, Peter. Nice scam.” Neal made an impressed face. Peter rolled his eyes.

“That is kind of you to say.” Dean Schreuders led Peter and Diana to his outer office, where a young woman awaited them. “This is Julia. She will give you the tour of the place. She’ll take you anywhere you need to go.”

“Thank you.”

The tour began at the top of the building, Peter and Diana listening attentively to the young woman’s narrative, learning of the building’s origins as an estate for a sugar plantation until its incorporation as a university in the 1950’s.

Neal popped in and out, reporting back with his observations about the art on the walls of the building and the fact that this was a complete waste of time. Peter gave him a dirty look; they’d have to play nice until they knew what they were up against.

The tour was about at its end when Peter indicated a locked door. “What’s through there?”

“Just the basement,” answered Julia. “It’s not normally on the tour, but I imagine you’d need to have a look down there, wouldn’t you?” She smiled shyly and went to fetch the keys.

“There’d better be something down there,” Diana muttered. “Or this was a complete waste of time.”

 “You said it,” Peter agreed. He was about to say something else when there was a voice over their communications link.

“Cops,” Moz whispered. “Looks like the locals have arrived.” Moz was in a van on the outer drive of the college’s campus, near the main entrance.

“What?” Peter said into his watch.

“Oh boy. You guys had better hurry up in there.”

“Jones, can you confirm?”

Jones was observing from another vantage point on the campus, with a direct view of the front door. “Looks like Adler's with them too, Peter.”

“Great.” He switched off the audio on his watch so Sara and Jones wouldn’t hear. “OK, you’re up, Neal. get down there and see if there’s anything we can use.”

Neal nodded and disappeared.

“He was here?” Diana asked. Since Peter’s revelation to her and Mozzie, they hadn’t discussed Neal again. She sensed tension with Moz, but didn’t want to rock the boat enough to bring it up again.

“He’s always here,” Peter answered, and she thought she detected a faint smile on his lips.

At last, Julia arrived with the keys and Peter asked if they could hurry, as he had another meeting to prepare for.

The basement was a vast network of interconnected rooms, and seemed to extend beyond the confines of the main building. Peter mentioned this. “Oh, there was extensive tunneling during the 50’s and 60’s,” Julia replied. “There was a movement to link all the buildings up or something. I don’t know why, but I’ve heard it was for security or something. They abandoned it by 1980.”

Peter and Diana shared a knowing glance. Whoever had planted the transmitter here took advantage of the construction to hide whatever it was that was hidden. Peter found himself wondering what could possibly be worth all this trouble.

He would soon learn when Neal returned. “Peter! Peter! Peter!” he chanted.

Peter hung back while Julia and Diana moved on to the next room. “What are you, a five-year old that has to pee?”

Neal calmed, but his excitement didn’t lessen. “There’s a hidden vault on the Northeast corner of the basement. Climate controlled. There’s a false door built into the wall.”

“Show me.” He followed Neal to the spot, a wall lined with steam pipes above. “A false door?” Neal pointed to a mechanism built into the molding on the wall. “What’s in there?”

“I don’t know. It’s dark.”

“You can’t see in the dark?”

“I’m a ghost, not a bat, Peter. But whatever it is, there’s a lot of it. The vault is big – more than 1000 square feet.”

“Huh.”

“Well, are you going to open it or not?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You heard Jones, Adler's here, Peter. It’s now or never.”

With a shrug, Peter pulled the lever and the false door opened with a dusty sigh. Whatever was back there had been hidden for a long time. He pulled the door all the way open to reveal a heavy-looking door with two standard combination locks. 

“It’s an old Mosler vault. Sweet!” Neal exclaimed. His excitement was short-lived. “Crap – a dual control lock.” He knelt beside the door and put his head against it, turning each combination dial in turn, listening for the telltale clicks. He looked back at Peter. “These locks are designed for two people to dial the combinations simultaneously. Shit, this is going to be tricky. I wish Moz were here.”

“Should I get him?”

Neal shook his head. “There’s no time. We’re both going to have to do this. Come down here.”

 Peter hesitated. “Come down here!” Neal repeated. He knelt beside Neal.

Neal put his head back to the vault’s door. “Man, I wish I had my equipment here,” he commented. The locks were set in the center of the door, about three feet from the floor and about twelve inches apart. Neal put his left hand on the one lock and his ear back against the door. He indicated that Peter should to the same. Peter leaned in close, the front of his shoulder brushing against Neal's.

Neal called out the numbers and directions to Peter, trying to get the combination right as he moved the dial on the left with his own hand. “Right, 23. No, 30. Shit. Let’s try again. Right 33. Ok, now left. Slow, Peter, slower. _Slower_. Here, let me help.” Without thinking, Neal raised his right hand and put it over Peter’s, manipulating his hand through the delicate maneuverings required to open the locks. After about five minutes, a satisfying _thunk_ sound was heard and the safe was finally unlocked.

The two looked at each other for a beat. “Is it open?” Peter asked, his voice tense.

“It’s open.” Neal pulled on the lever and disengaged the lock.

“Good,” Peter said, sounding relieved, and snatched his hand away from Neal's. A disappointed expression crossed Neal's face that he could not mask.

“You know how they say you feel cold when there’s a ghost in the room? Well, when one touches you, it’s kind of painfully cold,” Peter explained sheepishly. He stood, flexing his hand to get the feeling back into it.

Neal stood up as well. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m sorry.” He reached out to him but then thought better of it.

“You didn’t know, Neal. It’s OK. It’s OK.”

They looked at each other, regret in each man’s eyes.

Just then there was a clamor at the top of the stairs as an assembly of constables arrived, Dean Schreuders bringing up the rear. “Please, I assure you, this is fully sanctioned by the university,” he was saying, though no one was listening.

Peter turned as the room filled with an assortment of police, university personnel, Diana and Julia and, finally, Vincent Adler.

“What’s going on here?” Peter demanded.

“Going on the attack. Ballsy.” Neal commented appreciatively.

“We might ask the same,” Adler said, moving to the front of the group. “What are you doing here, Agent Burke? Surely the FBI has no jurisdiction in Aruba to mount any kind of investigation?”

“Investigation?” Schreuders said. “No, it’s a security sweep, isn’t it Agent Burke?”

 “Not exactly,” Peter replied.

“And what’s this?” Adler said, indicating the door to the vault. “Explain yourself, Burke. Surely a courtesy security sweep by the US government doesn’t require breaking and entering. Officers, arrest this man and his partner.”

“I’ve had about enough of you, Adler,” Peter said menacingly. “What authority do you have here?”

“Me? Almost none. But him?” He indicated a rather tall gentleman. “He’s with the police and he’s got all the authority we need. Arrest him.”  

Peter put his hands up in a submissive gesture while one of them took him by the elbow.

Adler grinned smugly at Peter as he took a step towards the vault. “This was almost too easy, Burke,” he said softly. Peter just glared.

As Adler reached out for the handle on the vault door, there was another noise at the top of the stairs and another group soon joined them.

“Not so fast, bud,” Sara said.

“And you are?”

“No one important, Mr. Adler. But these gentlemen,” she indicated the burly men surrounding her, “are with the Aruban Ministry of Justice. And this,” she tapped an older man on the shoulder, “is Deputy Commissioner Maartens. We’ve been sent here on the authority of the Governor to oversee the investigation and removal of suspected stolen goods from these premises.”

“What? Stolen?” Schreuders exclaimed. The poor man really hadn’t a clue what was going on.

Peter stepped forward, crossing in front of Adler. “Nice timing,” he said to Sara.

“I hate to be late to the party,” she said with a smile.

Everyone stood around looking at each other. “Jesus, isn’t anyone just the least bit curious what’s inside the damn vault?” Neal asked sarcastically.

Peter said, “What’s inside the vault, Adler?” But the man merely glared at him, tight lipped. “Should we find out?”

Peter strode over to the vault and opened the door. The light from the overhead lamps was enough to illuminate the interior. Peter stepped inside to find shelves lining the walls, filled with sculptures, paintings, vases, jewelry and other valuables. At the far end of the room stood an easel with a painting, covered by a cloth. Peter walked up to it. Behind him, Adler's face lit up with anticipation, clearly knowing what was coming and losing himself in the moment even if he hadn’t won. Peter lifted the cloth over the painting from the back, revealing a portrait of a richly dressed young man, painted in the Italian renaissance style, set in a gilt frame.

“Holy mother of God,” Sara breathed as she caught sight of it.

“I don’t believe it,” Schreuders said, an art history professor prior to his stint as an administrator.

“What he said,” Neal said wide-eyed, pointing at Schreuders as he moved into the room to stand beside Peter. “Do you know what that is?”

“I’ll be damned. It’s [the lost Raphael](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_a_Young_Man_\(Raphael,_formerly_Krak%C3%B3w\)),” Peter breathed.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Adler asked, enraptured.

\----

A week later, Peter was once again called into Hughes’ office at the end of a long day. “I don’t have to tell you, Peter, good work on the Adler affair.”

Peter scoffed. “What good work? The Arubans refused to extradite. He’s still a free man.”

“But he didn’t get his hands on what he worked towards for all these years. And you’ve restored a heritage of priceless artworks to the Polish people.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The Adler thing still stuck in Peter’s craw.

“Well, to show their gratitude, the government of Poland would like to honor the FBI agents who recovered their lost art treasures with a gala and exhibition of the artworks. The Raphael, along with selected other items, will be on display at the Polish consulate here in New York in two weeks. It promises to be quite the occasion, or so I’m told.”

Peter looked at him sideways. “You don’t say.”

“You and your team are to be honored guests of the Polish government, where you’ll be presented with the Order of Polonia Restituta, their highest civilian honor.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am, and you’d better be there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. My wife would kill me.”

“So, go ahead - inform the team. You can thank me later.”

Peter laughed ruefully and left the room.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Neal said, walking with Peter back to his office.

“Free pierogies for life?”

Neal looked at him like he was simple. “Adler's going to try to steal the Raphael. You know security at the consulate  won’t be that good. Not against a determined former billionaire with an unhealthy obsession.”

Peter grinned. “I’m counting on it. If Adler comes to steal that thing, we’ll be waiting for him.”

\----

Completed in 1905, the DeLamar Mansion was one of the finest examples of Beaux Arts architecture in Manhattan. Designed by renowned architect C. P. H. Gilbert, the building is not graced by that man’s typically over the top flourishes and is the stronger for it. Besides, Mr. DeLamar didn’t want to pay for that. It is now the home of the Polish Consulate, and has been since the 1970’s, and is used from time to time to put on concerts and recitals for the city’s elite.

Tonight, it housed some of the most remarkable pieces of art from a lost collection. Looted by the Nazis and never returned, the most significant treasures of the royal [Czartoryski Museum](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Czartoryski_Museum)were now on display in the grand hall on the first floor, in preparation for a gala celebrating their recovery.

And tonight, the man largely responsible for their recovery sat peering at a video feed in a tiny broom closet, a too-large earbud causing much discomfort, a half-eaten deviled ham sandwich at his elbow, and trying desperately not to fall asleep. Peter took another swig of coffee – at least the Consulate’s staff stocked the good stuff.

The Consulate General and most of his staff had left the building empty, content to allow the FBI to manage and staff the security leading up to the gala. They were happy to provide what help they could, even if that help meant doing nothing, if it would prevent the theft of the Raphael.

“You think he’ll show tonight?” Neal asked, suddenly at Peter’s shoulder.

“We can only hope.”

“He didn’t show last night or the night before. What makes you think it’ll be tonight?”

“The party’s tomorrow, it’s his last chance.”

“Maybe he gave up.”

“Do you really think he’d give up?”

“No.”

“Neal,” Diana said, unaware of half of the conversation going on around her yet fully aware of its tenor, “leave him alone.”

Neal looked at her, astonished. “You know, I regret coming out to her,” he huffed and disappeared.

“He’s gone,” Peter told her, his voice weary.

“It’s gotta be tonight, right?” she asked.

“You too?” He sat back to straighten his back, his tired and cramped muscles screaming in protest. He cracked his neck and Diana flinched. She hated when he did that.

“Wait a minute, I think I saw movement,” Diana said. She picked up her radio. “Swanson, what’s going on at the Southwest corner?” Swanson’s response was muffled, unintelligible.

Peter took up his own radio. “Swanson, please repeat.” There was no response.

“Look!” Diana said, pointing at the monitor. At least half a dozen men clad in black could be seen entering the building through the service entrance on the Southwest side of the building.

 “Crap,” Peter muttered, standing. “Jones!” he fairly shouted into his radio. “Take two men and back up Swanson.” There was a sudden brightness on three of the feeds he was looking at on the monitor, followed by blankness. Flash grenades had been set off at those positions, with smoke canisters to limit visibility.

“Crap! Diana, stay here and monitor everything. Communicate everything you see to the team. Taylor, you’re with me.”

“Yes sir!” Taylor, the probie, squeaked. He had just returned with a fresh jug of coffee. He didn’t really expect to be called into duty; he was usually banished to the van. He unholstered his gun.

“Watch where you point that thing,” Peter muttered and strode out of the tiny room.

“Peter! There’s at least eight of them,” Neal said, following as Peter started moving down the hall. “They’re armed. Adler's with them.”

“I knew it!” Peter hissed, a thrill of excitement tickling up his spine. “I knew he couldn’t stay away.”

“Sir?” Taylor said.

“Nothing. Be careful, Taylor. These men are armed.”

“There are at least three of them in the upper gallery,” Neal reported urgently. “Three on the main floor. Did I mention there are automatic weapons, Peter?”

“They’ve come heavy.” Peter pulled up and spoke quietly into his communicator, “OK, team, there are at least eight unfriendlies. Armed with automatic weapons. I’m making my way to the main hall. There are three above and three below. Step lively.” He was answered by a chorus of “copy that’s” and “Rogers.”

Taylor wondered how Peter had this information when the two of them hadn’t yet arrived at their destination, but let it slide in the excitement of the moment.

Peter and Taylor stopped at the entrance to the main hall. Across the vast space, Peter could just make out another team of two of his men, surveying the situation. Peter gestured for them to hold their positions. “Almost at the upper gallery,” came a voice in Peter’s ear. He looked up, saw another team in position in the upper gallery.

Inside the room, three dark-clad men had approached the Raphael where it hung behind glass on a large wall, the focus of the room. They’d already managed to break the glass and were removing the picture from where it hung, shoving it into a large duffel that one of them slung over his shoulder.

Peter gave the signal and the FBI agents entered the room, guns drawn. “Federal agents! Freeze!” Peter bellowed. He trained his gun on the man with the painting, who shrank back behind the other two, who raised their weapons and began firing. Peter squeezed out three rounds before being forced to retreat. He vaguely heard a cry across the hall as one of his agents went down with a bullet in his knee. “Man down!” someone shouted.

There was currently a firefight going on in the upper gallery, but Peter was focused on the three men in the main hall. He crouched down, took aim and hit one in the shoulder. His gun went flying, out of reach. Peter smirked. The second gunman fell back, protecting the man with the painting. They approached a door at the back of the hall, calling for a retreat. The men in the upper gallery covered them, raining gunfire down, effectively keeping the agents pinned. Then a body fell out of the gallery, practically at Peter’s feet. One of the hostiles, he was thankful to see. One of his agents had gotten a shot off, good.

“Cover me, Taylor,” Peter said and ran for the door at the far end of the hall. Taylor dropped to a knee and lay down a barrage of covering fire, keeping the men in the gallery back. The door slammed behind Peter.

Peter ran down a narrow corridor, shouting into his communicator, “I am in pursuit of two suspects. One is armed. The other has the painting. I am in the service corridor on the, uh, north side of the building.”

“Copy that, Peter,” came Diana’s voice. “I’m sending Jones to back you up.”

The corridor ended in a set of double doors – the kitchen. Peter spotted the men just ahead of him. He saw that the one with the painting was in fact Adler. For some reason, this fact made him insanely happy. He ducked as the other man with the gun squeezed off a few rounds in his direction. The shots went wide, bouncing off of the door of the walk-in.

Peter saw Jones and another agent entering at the far end. “Freeze!” Jones bellowed, aiming at the gunman. He fired at them, they fired back. The man was hit and went down.

Adler had fallen back, however, and had found another door at the back of the kitchen. Peter took off after him.

There was another narrow corridor, ending at a door and a long staircase. There was no exit, and no route to the basement level, so Adler had headed up. Peter glanced up the stairs, his gun pointing, to be sure there were no nasty surprises awaiting him, before heading off in pursuit of Adler.

Two stories he climbed, three. How the hell tall is this building, he wondered. He heard a door bang below him. Someone else was on the stairs. He chanced a look down and a bullet whizzed towards him; luckily it went wide and sank into the plaster to his right. “Shit!” Peter pulled back and briefly regretted not donning his Kevlar vest. He decided up was the only way to go. Keeping to the wall, he raced upwards in pursuit of Adler.

Finally he reached the top floor and a door the roof. The person on the stairs behind him was fast approaching, he had to go out. Holding his weapon ready in front of him, he opened the door and eased out of it, eyes sweeping left, then ri-

 _POP_ went Adler's gun and Peter felt a searing, hot pain in his side. He went down, his gun skidding across the rooftop out of reach. “Ah, fuck!” he screamed, curling in on himself, the pain sudden and unbearable. He was vaguely aware of Adler standing nearby. The door to the stairwell began to open as Adler's accomplice arrived.

But the door slammed itself shut on the man, who shoved against it and found it unmoving. He continued to hammer against it for the other side but Neal, Peter knew, would hold it fast.

“Adler!” he gasped, looking up at the man who now approached him, a handgun trained on him. The painting lay in its duffel where he had dropped it.

“Agent Burke, we meet again. I wish I could say it is with pleasure, but I think you’d know I’d be lying. Although, it will be a pleasure to finally say goodbye.”

Peter said nothing, just squinted up at him, panting. He saw a hint of cruelty in Adler's eyes, he thought, something that told him that this was it, the man would kill him and feel no remorse. He said a silent prayer for Elizabeth and closed his eyes.

“No,” said a familiar voice.

Peter opened his eyes and saw that Neal stood in front of Adler, shielding Peter.

“Wh- Neal?” Adler said, incredulous.

Neal waved his fingers.

“But you’re dead!”

“Dead schmead. Turns out it’s not as final as you think.” He took a step toward Adler.

“Stop.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” He took another step.

Adler fired. Peter saw Neal flinch, could see from this angle how the bullet ripped through his vest, but it did not stop him. Adler backed away. Neal continued advancing, taking slow and deliberate steps towards the man who had cost him so much. Adler emptied his entire clip into Neal, screaming in frustration as they had no effect. Neal kept advancing on him, backing him up until they were standing at the parapet.

“Tell me, Vincent, while we’ve got a minute, was it all worth it? All this? For a damn painting?”

Adler smiled, the crazy obsessed smile Neal had only seen on one other occasion, that day in Adler's office with Alex. “You’re damn right.”

“And Kate? Why kill her? What’d she do to you?”

“Nothing, she was a tool. I used her. Then I didn’t need her anymore, so I got rid of her.”

“Huh. I always knew you were a twisted puppy, but wow.”

Adler shrugged. And reached into his jacket to pull out a second gun. Feinting right, he managed to move past Neal and trained the weapon on Peter, his aim to kill the FBI agent. Neal lunged, grabbing Adler’s wrist with his left hand, his throat with his right, and, kicking with his legs, launched them both over the roof’s edge.

Peter watched it all unfold with the disinterested detachment that only heavy blood loss could bring. He heard shouting behind him, behind the door and finally it opened. Jones ran to his side, saw his condition, and started some basic first aid.

“Peter, we got you, man. You’re OK. We got you.” He reported a man down and called for a medic, pressing on Peter’s wound to staunch the bleeding. “Where’s Adler?”

“With Neal,” Peter answered before he passed out. “He’s with Neal.”

\----

Peter was having a nightmare. The strange thing about it was he knew he was having a nightmare and ought to wake up, but found he couldn’t. In it, he kept looking for Neal, had an urgent need to find him. He was scared, scared for Neal, for himself. He had to find him. He seemed to be in a large house, his but not his, and no matter where he went, he couldn’t find his friend. But the fear kept mounting. He needed to see him, needed him near, safe. But he was always frustratingly out of reach, brief glimpses out of the corner of his eye, being taken away from Peter, always being taken away when he finally caught up.

“Neal!” he gasped and opened his eyes.

He knew immediately he was in the hospital; the sounds and smells clued him in almost before he was conscious. The memory of what had happened with Adler also came flooding in, and he felt a jolt of relief that it was finally over. And here he was, in the hospital. There was a dull throbbing in his side, but was otherwise in no pain.

“Honey?”

He looked to the side and there was his darling Elizabeth, blue eyes wide with worry. She looked tired and distressed, but she had never seemed more beautiful to him. “Sweetie,” he said. But it came out more like, “ee-ie,” as his voice was little more than a croak. He cleared his throat.

El slowly fed him some of ice chips, then  leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He sighed. “Learn to duck,” she whispered to him.

“I try, but they keep getting me,” he said with a grin. “What time is it?”

“5:00.” He glanced out the window and saw it was daylight, so he’d been out of it for nearly a day. “The bullet just missed your lung. It was a clean shot. You’re lucky.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There will be plenty of time to make it up to me. I understand from your doctors that the recovery time will be lengthy.”

He groaned. “Plenty of Scrabble and jigsaw puzzles, I suppose. Boy, Neal’d love to see that-” he shut his mouth audibly.

El’s smile vanished. “He would.” She took his hand in hers and squeeze it. “I bet he really would.”

Peter sighed, knew now that he needed to tell her about Neal and what had really happened with the case and with him for the last several months. “El, I have to tell you something, and it’s something that’s a little bit strange, so I want you to bear with me, OK?”

She looked a little concerned, but put on her encouraging expression. Peter took a deep breath and launched into the story, El only interrupting him from time to time for clarification on details.

By the end of it, Peter was sleepy and his voice was almost gone, but he’d gotten it all out and he felt better that he didn’t have to lie to her anymore.

“So, Mozzie and Diana know,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me until now, because…”

He knew he was in trouble and used his condition to get himself out of it. He tried to sit up and winced as his stitches pulled. She got up and eased his shoulders back on his pillows. “I’m sorry, El, I just didn’t want you to freak out. I was going to tell you eventually.”

“I think I understand. So, is he here now?”

“No. The last time he had to become solid, he was gone for a few days.”

“He saved your life.”

“Yeah, he did. I wish I could thank him.”

\----

Peter was sent home from the hospital after four days. El stayed home with him while he recuperated for an entire week, and for an entire week they drove each other crazy. Moz would come over occasionally to help him pass the time, as well as the rest of “Burke’s Crew.” Even Sara brought gourmet cookies one afternoon and offered to cook dinner while El ran errands.

As the first week wore into two and then three and Neal hadn’t turned up, Peter started to feel concerned. He brought it up one night as they lay in bed, his fears finally needing to be voiced.

“El, can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, honey, you can tell me anything.”

“It’s Neal. He hasn’t come back and it’s been three weeks.”

“Well, you said he’d have to recharge his batteries or something, right? I mean, maybe that’s what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, I’m really worried for him, El. He said it was empty where he went last time. It scared him.”

She pulled him closer and sighed, kissed him on top of his head. “Peter I think you have to prepare yourself for the fact that he may not come back. Maybe he’s moved on. Don’t ghosts do that sometimes? Maybe the resolution of this whole Adler thing was what he needed.”

Peter was quiet for a long time. “You think so?” he said in a small voice.

“I don’t know, but it’s possible.” She felt him nod against her, and then she felt him begin to tremble in her arms. A sob escaped his lips and she pulled him in even tighter, making shushing noises and rubbing circles against his back. It was the first time he’d really cried over Neal's death and she hoped it wouldn’t break him.

 ----

Over the next week, El thought it was Peter that was the ghost, he was barely there. Finally having to deal with Neal's death and absence from his life had hit him hard, and he wouldn’t see anyone or even talk much to her. He stayed in their bedroom and just lay on his side, answering her when she asked him a question, and eating when she put food down in front of him, but he was a shade, a shadow of his normal self. At the end of the week she thought he could handle the push she wanted to give him in order to move him towards healing.

She threw his jacket across his legs and ordered him to put it on; it was now October and there was a bite in the air.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To say goodbye,” she said, put the leash on Satchmo and walked out to the car.

She brought him to the cemetery and parked the car near the gate. She and Satch walked him over to Neal's grave, she handed him the flowers she’d brought and Satchmo’s leash, and returned to the car, alone.

Peter knelt down on the grass in front of Neal's headstone and brushed away the leaves that had accumulated. He lay the flowers down across it and hung his head. “So am I supposed to talk to you now? Is that how this works?”

He looked around. It was a sunny day, which was in complete contrast to his mood. He’d never felt so much like he had a giant, repressive weight on his chest, and he could no longer blame it on his injuries.

“Oh, this is hard. There’s so much I want to say and yet, I can’t come up with the words. Just, thanks, you know? You were there when I needed you most. And I always needed you, Neal. I hope you knew that.

“So, thanks for saving my life, and, um, I hope that you’re happy wherever you are. I hope you’re with Kate and there’s that white picket fence for the two of you, too.”

“And rainbows, and unicorns and no one ever gets fat, ever!” said a familiar voice behind him.

Satchmo gave a single happy bark and began wagging his tail furiously. Peter closed his eyes, suddenly conscious of the tears streaming down his face, and sniffed. “You bastard.”

“Miss me?” Suddenly, he was standing in front of Peter, leaning his hip against the headstone, his hands in his pockets, the trilby angled down over his left eye.

“You still look like a cartoon character in that get-up,” Peter said, sitting back on his feet.

“Aw, come on, the classics never go out of style.”

“You came back,” Peter couldn’t keep a smile from his face.

“How could I stay away? Think of the trouble you’d get in without me.”

“Think of the trouble I get into _with_ you.”

“You know you love me. Besides,” he held out his foot and lifted his pant leg, where the green light on the tracker glowed placidly. “I’ve got two years left on my parole. You still own me.”

“I suppose I do. Now come on. El’s waiting in the car. I’m sure she’d like a word.”

“I’m sure she’d like several.”

They walked back to the car together, Satch trotting happily in front of them. “You know, I’ll probably never leave you, Peter,” Neal said as they walked. “It somehow feels like belonging when I’m here. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

 -----  


 Thank you for your time!  


**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Notes:**
> 
>   * This was written pre-Under the Radar, so I had no clue there would be a stolen Nazi cache of art at the time. Honestly.
>   * [The lost Raphael](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_a_Young_Man_\(Raphael,_formerly_Krak%C3%B3w\)) is the most valuable piece stolen by the Nazis during WWII that has not been recovered. Its value is estimated to be $100 million (US) today. 
>   * The [Polish consulate](http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/realestate/14scapes.html?_r=2) in NY is also pretty cool, located in Murray Hill. How has the show not shot on location there? It’s gorgeous.
>     * And special thanks and cherries to  Kanarek13, who set me straight on the award that Peter and crew will be receiving from the government of Poland!
> 

> 
>   
> 


End file.
